


Silk

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Consent Issues, Explicit Sexual Content, Season/Series 05, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-01
Updated: 2011-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 00:06:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike, Xander, lost in Arabic opulence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Where the fuck are we?”

Xander raised a fuzzy head, forcing gummy eyes to open.  “Um.  I think we’re in. . . Aladdin?”

“And his ruddy forty thieves,” Spike agreed.

The room was large, the architecture immediately bringing to mind images of mosques and ancient middle eastern buildings from the television they both adored.  Sinuous and curvy dominated the room, not a single right angle in sight.  Even the  _windows_  were more circular than rectangular, letting in sweetly-scented night air.  Jasmine.  Myrrh.  The walls were tiled with geometric patterns, brightly colored in blues and greens and yellows.  The floors were thickly carpeted, their patterns matching the walls, their colors darker and richer, silk banners flowing from ceiling down to the—

Bed.  They were in a bed.

Naked.

“Yee-ah!”

Xander bolted up and off the bed, landing on his ass with a  _woof_  of expelled air.  Arms and legs still flailing—as well as other things—he forced his stunned body to grab some of the opulent silk tapestries and cover himself.

Spike bit his lip.  Hard.  “You done screaming like a girl, mate?”  His voice was high and tight.  Rather like he was being strangled.  His eyes were incandescent in the light cast from various lamps.

“Uh, yeah, I think.  And  _ow_ , that hurt.  Spike, where the hell—”

“Good.”  Throwing his head backward, Spike guffawed.  Loudly, and for a long, long time.

Wrapping the silk around his lower half tighter, Xander tried not to let his eyes drop below Spike’s navel.  It was hard, since the vampire was rolling about with the strength of his laughter, and Xander was struck by the inexplicable urge that he should be licking that honey-blond trail of hair that led downward. . .

He forced himself to look annoyed—Spike was laughing at  _him,_  after all.  But as the sounds continued, Xander couldn’t stop the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.  Spike looked. . . Spike looked  _happy_ , something the young man didn’t think he could ever remember seeing before.  Not gleeful, not smarmy, not even leering, which were Spike’s  _usual_  expressions for ‘good feeling’.  Just. . .happy.

“You looked like a bloody windmill!” Spike gasped out finally.  By then, he was tangled up in his own cocoon of silk blankets—thankfully covering the place where Xander’s eyes continued to drop—grin open and friendly.  It pulled an answering one onto Xander’s face, remaining as he chuckled a bit ruefully.

“Yeah.  Well,  _you_  try walking up next to the guy who you—never mind.”

Still grinning, a slightly predatory look came back.  “Did, didn’t I?” he asked, voice low and dripping with things Xander didn’t want to examine too closely.  “After all,  _you_  were—bloody hell.”  The look dropped off completely, leaving Spike befuddled and annoyed.  “What the bleeding hell is going on here!”

Untangling himself, Spike began to prowl around their room.  A few small brazier type things that cast a soothing golden glow.  Positively  _hundreds_  of pillows in all colors imaginable, made out of silk, velvet, and other sensuous fabrics, were scattered around the room.  A fountain trickled gently in the back of the room, near the bed, its white basin a shock against the riotous color.

“Okay.  Lessee.  Little good witch told me she had a pressie for me, a thank you for popping her one.”

“I’d, ah, think it was more for proving she  _wasn’t_  a demon, but—yeah, okay, sure.”  Spike’s heated glare cut off anything Xander was going to say.  Instead, he contented himself with watching Spike prowl through the room, lifting objects, sniffing them distractedly before replacing them and looking at something else.  He was still naked.  Xander wondered why he’d thought Spike’s original hair color was dark brown.  Then he wondered why he’d thought that at all.

“Right.  Got her family off her back, blah blah, she and Red live happily bloody ever after.  Just peachy.  But, well, who’m I to turn down a pressie?  She sits me down in this circle, whispers something—in  _Arabic?_   And poof.  I’m here.”  The thoughtful look dropped away, another heated glance sent towards Xander.  “With  _you.”_

‘Heated’ could mean so very many things.  Xander decided to choose anger, since he was used to Spike being angry with him.  He was angry at Spike a lot, too.  He could deal with that.  “Oh, yeah, like I  _chose_  to be here with you, Fangless Blunder.  Thank you, no.  I was at home.  With Anya.  And we’d. . . gone to sleep. . .”

Puzzled, Xander crossed his legs to sit more comfortably.  His hip ached dully from when he’d landed on it.

“Before you ask,” Spike said, “this isn’t a dream.  Least, it don’t  _smell_  like a dream.”

“Anya said something.  What did she say?  I don’t remember!”  Frustrated, and starting to be frightened, Xander slammed his fist towards the plush cushions of the bed.

His hand was caught mid-air.

“What did I tell you about destroying furniture, Ali?” Spike drawled from above him, looking lazy and amused.  “Rich I may be, that does not give you liberty to demolish things for the sake of demolishing them.”  Settling onto his knees beside Xander, Spike flashed a devilish smile before pushing down the twisted silk and taking a hardening cock into his hands.  Stroking slowly he said, “If you think you have so much time, I shall have to find you things to do.”

“But I have many things to do, Master.”  He felt relaxed and happy, pleased that Master had time to spare with him today.  Master was so often busy.   “However, Master does not let me attend to my duties as. . .”

Spike chuckled richly, keeping the pace languid and sure.  “I should take you to court with me, Ali.  Have you ride me in front of the viziers,”  _squeeze,_  “and the advisors,”  _squeeze,_  “and the mages, and all the endless hordes of petitioners. . .”

Xander’s pupil’s dilated and his breathing grew ragged.  “Oh, yes, Master.  Whatever you desire, Master.”

“Poor Ali.  Have I denied you so, lately?”

Xander whimpered as a cool thumb swiped over top of the head, gathering moisture and pressing firmly against the drooling slit.  “No, Master.  I know you’ve been busy with the— _oh_ —the—”

“Hm, obviously I’ve been  _very_  busy if you can hardly speak while I’m just stroking you.”  Another warm chuckle and Xander felt lips tickle his cheek.  “I think I’ll go on holiday.  Just for a little while.  Either that, or I  _am_  bringing you to court with me.  I spent a great deal of time and effort training a boy to be ready, willing, and deliciously responsive,” he purred seductively.  “It wouldn’t be prudent of me to allow such a treasure to go to waste.”

One long lick from jaw to eyebrow and it was only extreme force of will—and training—that kept Xander from thrusting up to find more friction.  “Master. . .”

“Will you beg for me, my pet?”  Another lick.  “Will you beg for my permission?”

“Yes, Master, please, anything Master!”

“Do you enjoy my hand on you?  Your Master’s hand, stroking you firmly—like this?  Rubbing where you liked to be rubbed, where I  _made_  you like it?  Oh, Ali, you’re so beautiful when you’re desperate like this.”  Another lick, rough tongue rasping along skin shaved perfectly smooth.

“Please, Master, please.”

“Thrust at me.  Yes, like that, my pet.  Help me work that beautiful cock.  Do you want release, my pet?”

Xander moaned in wordless pleading.

“Do you want to pour yourself into my hand?  Release all that is pent up within you?  Coating your Master’s hand with your essence?  Will you bind yourself again?”

“Always, Master,” Xander gasped, hyperventilating with need.  “Heart and mind, blood and soul, I am yours, Master.”

A deep purr of pleasure and the hand that had not ceased its torture cupped the head tightly.  “Bind yourself.  Make yourself mine.”

Xander arched but did not cry out, his body jerking slightly as thick, milky fluid dripped from his cock.  It did not spurt, instead dribbling down like molasses, to pool between wide-spread thighs.  The orgasms was drawn out impossibly long from the pressure on the head of Xander’s cock until—

“Master!”

Spike chuckled a third time, pleased as his flushed and gasping pet twisted to lap up the fluid from the silk.  Rubbing his back gently, Spike leaned down to give his beloved Ali a kiss, ready to whisper another promise that  _this time_  he really would take a break—

“Oh,  _gross!”_   “What the bleedin’ fuck!”

It took a tense second or three to realize they were so close their noses were practically bumping.  Xander threw himself back with a yell, grabbing a pillow to cover himself before scrambling to the fountain.  “That was  _gross,”_  he said between scrubbing and spitting.

Spike smirked, stretching himself along the still-damp silk.  “Oh, please,” he drawled with lazy derision, “like you never tasted your own jizz before?”

“No, I haven’t, Spike, and  _eww_ , just for the record.  You really will suck anything won’t you?”  The scarred eyebrow rose and Xander belatedly slapped a hand over his mouth.  Removing the hand, he spat furiously again.  “Where the hell are we?  And can we go home, so I never have to see you again?  Ever?”

Still chuckling, the vampire looked around their room with a practiced.  “Well, Toto, we certainly ain’t in Kansas now.”

“Spike!  Will you just—”

“Looks real enough.  There’s some mojo about, but I think that’s protection spells and the like.   _Smells_  real enough, too, and that’s hard to manufacture with a spell.  Spent time in Egypt; this looks a bit like that.”

Interested in spite of himself, Xander snagged yet another piece of silk and covered himself securely.  “Really?  I always thought stuff like this was a Hollywood producer’s wet-dream or something.”

“Well, yeah, if you look at the common folk.  Don’t live much better’n the rats, them.  But the rich folk, they got it nice.  Least, they did.  Eighty years and more since I been there, and they hadn’t discovered oil yet.”

“Oh.  So, we’re in the Middle East?”

“Yeah, because I have all the answers, don’t I?” Spike drawled with the casual ennui that drove Xander crazy.  Except he wasn’t relaxed.  Xander could see individual muscles tensed in wary anticipation, ready for something to happen. . .  It was oddly reassuring.  Spike was ready if something happened.  “You want answers, you start looking yourself.”

“ _You_  are the hundred-year-old-vampire.  You know about all this magic stuff, you figure it out.”

“Know more than you, wanker,” was the acidic reply.  “Just don’t know what  _this_  is.  Donut boy.”

Xander was about to make a snappy retort when he hesitated.  “This?  This place?  You don’t know what  _this_  place is?”

Spike shifted, losing some of the cultivated boredom.  He never  _could_  maintain that pose long, Xander realized.  “Yeah.  What of it?”

“You don’t know what  _this_  place is,” Xander repeated. “But you  _do_  know something about what just happened.  Don’t you.”

It wasn’t a question, but the answer was written plainly on the vampire’s face.  It was weird.  Were anyone else present, Xander was sure the pretense would have continued: making sure the world at large saw the cool, confident, vampire—in control of himself and his surroundings.  But it was only Xander.  And he. . . trusted Xander?  Would let himself relax around Xander?  Didn’t need the facade?  None of these questions were comforting.  Their answers less so, especially since he realized just how much he wanted to know those answers.

“Okay, Spike, no fair hogging the info.  You know what’s going on, don’t you?”  Xander concentrated on looking mean and foreboding; but his thoughts were scary things right now.

“No, I don’t have one sodding idea of what’s going on!” Spike snapped, leaping to his feet and beginning to pace.  Fortunately, the silk went with him as he agitated back and forth.  “All I know is—”

“Is?”

“Is we got some kinda. . . past life thing.  Or mebbe we’re in other people’s bodies.  That kinda thing.”

Well, it was more than Xander had.  He looked down at himself and then over to Spike.  “Well, we  _look_  the same—hey, here’s a mirror.  He held it up to see himself staring intently back.  “Yeah.  We look the same, so it can’t be possession—right?  So, um.  You think past life?”

“Yeah, well, I’ve done the possession bit before and this don’t feel like that so unless you got some bright ideas. . .”  Spike glared at him, fear and worry not quite hidden by the steely gaze.  “So, you’re Ali, is it?”  His voice did a weird, husky thing.  “And you’re my slave.”

Xander gulped, frozen solid as Spike prowled closer.  “Um, yeah, but see, I’m really  _Xander_ , remember?  I’m not a slave.  And anyway, why would you want  _me_  for a slave?  I’m gawky and clumsy and shouldn’t you want someone pretty and lithesome and, well, female?  You know, to cater to your, um, needs?”  Babble, babble, babble.  The rim of the fountain bumped against the back of his legs.

“Oh, I dunno,” Spike drawled.  His eyes were way too bright as they traveled up and down the human’s body.  Xander’s skin shivered wherever those eyes lit.  “Pretty enough, all that lovely golden skin.  Yeah. . . teach you how to dance for me. . .”

“Okay!”  Nice, big manly squeak, but adrenaline got Xander away from the fountain and past the bed before the vampire had time to blink.  “So.  Right.  Past-life stuff and  _how_  do we get home again?”

Smirking, Spike glanced at the mirror.  Nothing reflected back; well, that proved he was still a vamp, at least.  “Well, first thing we do is get the hell out of here.  Have a bit of a look, see what we can see?”

“Okay.  Recon, I know recon.”  Relieved to be on familiar ground, Xander found the door under a heavy fall of something gauzy-looking.  “Um, maybe we should get clothes first?”

“Ali, Ali, you know you are to be unclothed at all—buggering fuck, will whatever the hell you are get out of my damned mouth!”  Spike eyes crossed as he attempted to look at his own mouth.  Uncrossing his eyes, he glared across the room at Xander.  “We are gettin’ out of here  _now,_ ” he snarled.  “I want this ponce out of my head!”

Xander just blinked at him.  Three second ago, the vampire seemed happy to have the Xan-man as his personal cabana boy.  Now, he was playing homophobe—or was that Closet Man?—and overcompensating with aggressive behavior.  See random destruction of the room as he—searched for clothes for Xander?

Accepting the loincloth with another blink, Xander dressed himself.  Tried to remember everything he could from the psychology class Willow had babbled about and told himself that yes, indeed, he  _was_  a man even though he knew all that female sensitivity stuff.  Hey, all his  _friends_  were female!  It was learn or drown!

He was still very confused as he watched Spike struggle to put on the flowy, billowing cloth that seemed to be pants.  Or they would be if Spike could ever get them on right.  There were no shirts in sight.  “Hey, how come you get the pants and I get the loincloth!” he demanded with righteous aggravation.  “I want pants!”

“Fine!  Take the damned pants!  You try and get ’em on!”

Oh, snarky vampire.  “Good!  I will!  Just watch—oh, Master, must I dress you  _again?”_   Xander laughed, amusement shining from his eyes as he gathered up the flung material and crossed to the sullen vampire.  “Here,” he said, placing the fabric along pale, sinewy legs and holding it while he wound a sash around an ankle.  “Sometimes, Master, I wonder how it is you taught a poor, uneducated, European boy like me.  Since you cannot do the simplest things. . .”

“Insolence, Ali!”  But it lacked real anger and Xander grinned in anticipation.

“Shall I punish myself, Master?” he asked seductively, wrapping the other ankle tightly.  “Are you too poor a master to devise punishments for me?”

“I have neither the time nor the—oh, Allah above!”

Xander chuckled, his Master’s length deep within his mouth.  Sliding off with a lick at the spasming slit at the tip, he made his eyes big and innocent as he asked, “Allah, Master?  Do you wish  _him_  to teach me?”  One hand began to stroke and knead a velvet-soft sac, the other sliding down to press just behind them.  “I know I am not a good slave, born in a frozen land among godless people, without proper education or training.”  Releasing the sac, he dragged soft, un-calloused fingers to tease skin that shivered with want.  “I thought, perhaps, I did not need the Holy One himself to—”

“Ali!”

A despairing, desperate cry.  Laughing lightly, Xander slowly sucked his Master back into his throat.  Bobbing quickly, he tried not to laugh as his Master babbled to all and sundry that Ali was his best, most favorite slave, his love, his own, his—

 _“Ali!”_

Salty, coppery semen flooded his mouth, Xander very careful not to spill a drop.  While his Master panted and calmed, Xander licked him clean and tied the sash around his Master’s narrow waist, so that the pants would stay up.

“There, Master,” he said soothingly.  “All dressed.”

“Very go—oh, my god.”  Spike blinked, unsure as to whether he should be happy or disgusted that  _Xander_  had just sucked him off.  Rather well, too.

Xander chose for him.  He remained frozen for almost ten solid seconds before turning a deep, deep red all the way down his chest.  Then he howled.   _“Gross!”_   Once more, he dived for the fountain and splashed water everywhere as he tried to rid the taste of semen from his mouth.  “Not  _fair!”_  he complained as he tried to make himself throw up—Spike didn’t want to tell him that the finger-down-the-throat didn’t work for people who didn’t have a gag reflex.

Which Xander  _obviously_  didn’t have.

“How come  _I’m_  the one who always ends up with c—um. . .”  More blushing. 

Spike watched in obvious amusement, tracing the lovely rush of blood down the taut stomach—construction was good for  _something,_  then—past the silken loincloth. 

Which was doing  _nothing_  to hide the contradiction to the juvenile hacking and scrubbing from above.

Spike grinned.  This was fun.


	2. Chapter 2

“You done then?”

A laser-like glare cut across to the smirking vampire.  Spike wondered if the boy was going to pass out or explode or something.  Nearly five minutes and still that body-blush hadn’t faded—although it was starting to look nearly purple instead of the nice, delicious red from before.  Spike decided not to mention how tasty the flushed skin looked.  If that furiously beating heart pumped any harder, blood was going to start leaking from Xander’s ears.

He wondered what Xander tasted like.

“I hate you,” came the harsh response.

Spike rolled his eyes.  “Right, then.  You go on doing that cleaning thing, I’m gonna see what’s about.  Maybe find some compliant slave girls.”   He leered suggestively, hoping to entice Xander into coming with him.

He didn’t think about why he wanted Xander with him.  Or why he hoped they  _wouldn’t_ find any compliant slave girls.

“Slave girls?”  That did the trick, some of that dusky hue fading back to the normal California tan—although one part that remained suffused with blood.  Loincloths covered next to nothing, although Xander didn’t seem to realize that.  Yet.  Spike was waiting for the perfect time to tell him.

Yes, he was evil, ta much.

The vaguely anticipatory look turned suspicious.  “Why do you want slave girls?” Xander asked, folding his arms across his chest.  Spike stifled a giggle—the boy looked utterly ridiculous, clad in blue silk, a hardon, and a glare.  “All you need to do is wait for ‘Ali’ to make another appearance and—er, right. Slave girls.”

Look, more blushing.

Absurdly long eyelashes swept against red cheeks and Spike wondered why he was embarrassed this time.  It wasn’t like either of them were enjoying the whole insane role-playing they’d been forced into.

A bit of white was slowly drying on the corner of the boy’s mouth.

Er.  Okay, it wasn’t like they were  _consciously_  enjoying it.

Spike shook off his introspection and headed toward the waving gauzy curtains that they thought indicated a door.  The room smelled of sex and Xander’s sweat; he needed a distraction if he was going to stay by something that poured out pheromones and blood-scent.  Otherwise that Arab guy might come back—and Spike wasn’t convinced just how much of a top the other personality really was, despite the current evidence.  He also wasn’t interested in finding out.  Particularly when that discovery could come with him already on his back, legs in the air.

Granted, Xander did have a very nice—

“Gah!”  Shaking his body like a wet dog, Spike purposefully headed for the doorway.   “You wanna stay here, fine. I’m gone.”

“What?  Spike?  Spike!  Hey, wait up!”  There was no way, no  _possible_  way that he was turned on by the sound of bare feet slapping against the marble— _marble?_ —floor.  None.

Spike started to think about Darla.

“Hey, slow down.”  He felt a scalding wave of bodyheat before the actual touch of skin on his.  “Spike!”  The hand clasped his shoulder, jerking him back slightly.  Oh, how it  _burned_. He hadn’t been able to properly appreciate that roasting warmth when the other personality had been in control.  Now that he could. . .  He stopped more out of pleasant surprise than the tugging of Xander’s hand on his shoulder.

“You are not leaving me here,” Xander said with that desperate firmness the boy used sometimes.  The whole ‘no more butt-monkey’ thing Dawn had told him about one afternoon when she’d played hooky in his crypt.  The rendition—filtered through Buffy’s retelling—was eerily accurate now.  “I may hate you, but you are not leaving me here by myself while you go off and—do something.”

“Something?  Oh, save me from the devastating Harris wit.  You get the cheerleader to teach you that one?”

“Fuck you.”

Spike had a fraction of a second to curse before rich laughter poured out of his own throat.  “My precious Ali,” he said huskily, pushing the boy up against the nearest silk wall hanging.  He was such a pretty, pretty boy.  “So soon?  I thought we would go and look at the gardens first.”

“Where you have the—Spike, let go of me right now.”

Spike glanced down to see his own hand wrapped around two silk-covered cocks, pressed together and pointing at his chin.  “Er, right.  Sorry.”

He opened his hand, taking a nervous step back.  He was very horny now, and the intoxicating hot-blood-and-pheromones scent wasn’t helping.

He thought of Darla and then Darla with Angelus.  Still didn’t help.

Damn.

Swallowing convulsively, he took another step back and turned to study their surroundings.  A hallway, also lined in silk, conveniently muffling the sunlight so that it looked bright but no rays ever touched the areas they walked in.  Marble floors, tiled walls, panting, gasping, horny boy still braced where Spike— _no, the Arab_ —had pushed him.

“So, exploring?” Xander asked.  The boy’s voice sounded strained and nearly entirely falsetto.  Spike ignored the shiver that voice produced.  This was all the product of some weird spell that the little blonde Wicca had put together.  Some absolutely ridiculous kind of thanks.  Spike was contemplating his own ‘thanks’ whenever they got back.

He was  _not_  attracted to Xander.

“Right.  Exploring.”  They moved down the hallway, both with the stiff, my-legs-have-no-blood walk of men with persistent erections that would not go away no matter what.  Spike spared a brief moment of sympathy for the human—as a vampire, the pain didn’t bother him much, even made him enjoy it a bit more.  The human, however, had to be hurting badly at this point.

Except Spike didn’t care about that.  Because he was the Big Bad and the Big Bad ate humans.  He certainly didn’t contemplate doing them. . . favors.

They passed several rooms—bedrooms, mostly—all empty, although still lushly furnished, with the stale feeling that meant they hadn’t been used in a while.  After nearly twenty minutes, Xander motioned for them to halt.

“Okay.  So far, as explorers we suck.  Er, I mean, not that, ah—where are all the people?”  He sounded scared under the blustering attempt at humor.  “Are there people?  I mean, the creepy guy who takes over you indicated there were but. . . are we the only ones here?”

Spike inhaled deeply.  Arousal, from himself and the boy, their own scents below it, faint hints of flowers and. . . there we go, people.  “Yeah.  There were some—not long ago, too.  Want me to track ’em?”  And why was he asking the human for direction?

Xander blinked, a grin flickering across his face.  “You can do that?  Track through scent?  Like—”  Spike caught the tremor and jerked his head around to glare at Xander angrily.  Another grin appeared, then vanished; brown eyes began bouncing.

Spike growled.

“Like that!  Like a dog!”  Howling in his own imitation of one, Xander collapsed against the wall, convulsing with laughter.  Spike crossed his arms and stared, refusing to say or do anything.  He was a vampire.  Of  _course_  he could track people; they were his food!

Snarling at the idiocy of human boys, Spike stalked after the trailing scent of people.

“Wait, Spike—I’m sorry.”  Gasping and red-faced, the boy held out a hand while he wiped at tearing eyes.  “Hang on, okay?  Sorry.  I don’t—hey, wait a minute.”  The grin became impossibly bigger.  “Why am I apologizing to you?”

“Because you’re a tosser.”  He could be mature.  He could.  When he wanted.

Warm arms slid around his waist, pulling the unresponsive—no, he was not pouting—vampire into a snug embrace.  “Master,” was purred into his ear.  “Forgive your humble servant, Master.”

“I am Wa’il Nu’man, Master Vampire and Sultan of Heraz.  I am death in darkness, justice in sunlight.  I am the hunter who never misses, the guard who never rests.  I do  _not_  growl like a common mongrel!”

“Of course not, Master.”  But dark eyes continued to dance with suppressed laughter.

Growling, he picked up his nearly giggling slave and carried him to the nearby garden.  It was just barely dark, an echoing hint of sunlight painting the horizon pink, but certainly dark enough to allow him complete mobility.  Tossing the still-laughing boy onto a waiting bed of soft, sweet grasses, Nu’man pounced.

Licking, sucking, tickling, and most of all nipping, Nu’man tormented his younger lover until the boy lost all laughter and could do no more than groan under the assault.  Writhing under a cool mouth, unable to retaliate with his hands held fast above his head, he moaned and shrieked his need to the silent garden.  Not even birds disturbed their pleasure.

“A dog, Ali?” he whispered while he continued his torture.  “To sit and pant at your feet?  To come with a word, a gesture, instantly obedient?”  He released Ali’s wrists, unsurprised when they remained exactly where they were, as if chains bound them.  “Oh, Ali, I think you have your roles reversed.”  One hand pinched at distended nipples while the now-free left hand burrowed into the silken covering and pushed it to one side.  “Is that not correct?”

He sucked the head of Ali’s cock into his mouth.

Ali arched, screamed, and then hissed his answering, “Yessss,” only after he’d come back down to earth.  “Please, Master!”

Nu’man chuckled around his twitching mouthful, briefly sliding his mouth all the way down before releasing Ali entirely.  Reaching out towards a nearby bottle, he thumbed off the wax sealant and dribbled a large amount down Ali’s erection.

“Master—what—”

“Rose syrup, my pet.  I remember how much you liked it last time.”  Erection coated, Nu’man dabbled some on his own body and settled above the human’s face.  “Now, if you please.”

Oh, how talented was his Ali!  Trained to know just how Nu’man liked to be opened and lavished, responsive to the least of Nu’man’s reactions.  He occasionally added more rose syrup to his body—he loved to hear Ali gasp with pleasure at the sweet, almost sickly taste.  When Ali began to buck against thin air, however, he lifted himself and turned around.

“Don’t move,” he ordered.  Heat spread through him as sank down, spreading throughout his cold, dead body until he felt almost human again.  Heat, fullness, the sharp, skittering pleasure as his prostate was slowly rubbed. . .

Ali was panting, almost hyperventilating as Nu’man slowly lifted back up until only the very tip was inside—and then equally slowly came back down.  There were advantages to having preternaturally strong muscles, making the awkward, unbalanced movements easier to achieve.  Up and down he slid, angled so that his prostate was under constant pressure.  It felt very good, but rather like a light massage.  Nice, but not enough.

For him, anyway.

For Ali, it was the purest torture. 

“It has been weeks since I saw you, Ali,” he said conversationally as he rode at this snail’s pace.  “Have you done as I asked?”

“Yes, Master.”

Nu’man grinned.  “Very good, my pet.  Such a well-trained boy.  Denying yourself all physical pleasure for the past three weeks.”

Ali was reduced to mindless keening as he forced his body to remain perfectly still while his master used him.

“You are a treasure, my lovely Ali.”  He rose all the way up again.  “A beautiful treasure.”

Spike slammed back down.

“What the—”

“Master,” Ali begged, long past rational thought as he was still denied.  “Please, Master. Please.”

Spike blinked at the whimpering, shivering boy below him, mind racing as he tried to figure out what had happened.  He was himself, Spike, again.  But Xander was still Ali and. . .

And he was riding Xander.

“I bloody well knew it,” he muttered, rocking a little just to get the now-continuous begging to stop.  Eventually Ali’s—Xander’s— _the boy’s_  words tumbled back into the wordless kenning as he strove to hold back his orgasm.  “I knew the poof was a bottom.  Dammit, why am I the one who always ends up with a cock in his arse?!”

A nicely-sized, incredibly hard cock that was rubbing him in exactly the right places.  Also attached to a body that desperately needed to orgasm.

“Whatever.”  He glanced down to the unseeing boy.  “You bloody owe me for this, bricklayer.  Hear that?  You owe me.”

Threat pronounced, Spike nodded and leaned forward to brace himself on the ground.  “Harris—er, Ali?”  Lust-dazed eyes forced their way open to meet his.  “Pull me off, eh?”

Warm hands encircled him, tugging exactly the way he preferred—hard up, soft down, with little twists here and there—and he began to move.  No more of this teasing shit.  He wanted to get off.  Whoever was in control of the body he rode knew exactly what to do, matching the rhythm he set so that the combined pressure of warm hands on his outside and a warm cock on his inside sent his cold blood boiling.

Xander—Ali—whoever was babbling again, promising mind and body to Master Wa’il. His soul, his heart were already given, but anything, everything was Master’s so long as he was permitted to come!

Spike sped up, slamming himself up and down, groaning and panting due to what was turning out to be incredibly good sex.  The boy was moving, now, just enough to push up when Spike came down, angling his hips so that at that last second his prostate was almost viciously jabbed, the right amount of pain and pleasure humming through his body.

“Gonna come,” he gasped, surprised at how quickly he was getting off on this.  He felt his body freeze, clamping down impossibly hard while the boy’s hand moved at light-speed up and down—

He arched back, scream locked in his throat as he shot four times in quick succession onto the human’s chest.  Strong fingers milked him, prolonging the feeling until it was nearly pain.  Slumping forward, he gasped against sweaty skin.

 _Damn,_  had that been good.

“Well, pet,” he began, halting when he realized.

The cock inside his now-relaxed body was still hard, still desperate, held almost impossibly still by a human concentrating solely on not coming—no matter how much pain it caused him.

If he didn’t come soon, the boy really  _was_  going to explode.

“Shit, wasn’t it good?  Was good for—oh.  Right. Xa—I mean, Ali.  Ali, look at me.”  Eyelids fluttered, but only white showed.  “What the hell should I—oh.  Ali, come.”

Nothing.

“Fuck.  You cannot die—t’Slayer will kick my arse!  Come already, dammit!  Fuckin’—will you just bloody well finish!”

Hands grabbed his hips, flipping him over so quickly that he didn’t have time to protest.  Those same hands—when the hell did the boy get so strong?—held him down as hips worked with frantic speed.

Spike got hard again.

“Come on,” he whispered, spreading his thighs for a better angle. “Come for me.  That’s it, boy, come for me.  Come for Spike.”  He was going to have grass burns on his arse from the power of the boy’s thrusts.  Spike was grateful that this Nu’man obviously knew his stuff—it was  _soft_  grass at least.

“Come for me,” he said again.  “Come on, Ali.  Come for Spike.  Fill me up, make me warm inside.”  He braced himself on the ground, freeing a hand on to begin jacking himself.  “Fuck—mm, boy, you cannot die, you hear me?  Fucking cum before you bloody explode!  Come  _on_ , Xander, come—Xander?”  The thrusts faltered, just a little, and Spike could feel the balls slapping against him start to rise.  “You name is what does it?”  Spike didn’t stop to analyze why, not when he knew he was going to have bruises with the burns.

Not when the shuddering, hyperventilating boy was so close to seizuring instead of orgasming.

“Right, then.  Whatever.  Xander!  Xander, come now!”  Once, twice, three times more Xander pumped before throwing his head back and  _howling_  his release.  Spike jerked as the first warm burst of cum entered him, spreading that delicious heat even further through his body.  More and more poured in even as the boy shook and jerked.  And then he was yelling himself, chanting the boy’s name over and over as he came again and again—

Spike woke up on his back, with his legs in the air.  Well, not really in the air.  His heels were resting on Xander’s arse, but his knees were up high to accommodate the heavy body that lay on him.   But still.  On his back, legs in the air, with Xander bloody Harris sticking his cock up his arse.

“I  _knew_  it,” he muttered peevishly.

This kind of stuff never happened to Angelus.  He got souled, yeah, but not bloody humiliated.  Even  _Dru_  may’ve hung about the lesser end of the demonic gene pool, but she was still with demons.  This was just. . .

“Spike?”

“Yeah?  What?”

“We just had sex.”

“Yeah.  Pretty much.”

“Oh.  Okay.  Can I sleep now?”

Spike thought about moving.  He thought about how since he didn’t have to breathe, the solid weight on him wasn’t bothersome.  He thought about how warm it was.  Soft.  Almost comforting.  Xander wiggled a little while Spike thought, pulling out, and then snuggled in close.  Warm breath bathed the vampire’s neck.

“Yeah, pet.”  One arm slipped around a well-muscled back.  “We can sleep now.”

Spike would later categorically deny that he held on just as tightly as Xander did.


	3. Chapter 3

“Tara?  It’s Anya.”

“H-hi, Anya.  H-how are—”

“Is it working?”

Tara smiled against the phone in her hand, amused by the ex-demon’s abrupt demeanor.  Anya had always been so intimidating to her until they started spending time together plotting and arranging everything.  It was still nerve-wracking to be around someone so, well,  _abrupt,_  but she wasn’t afraid anymore.

“I think so,” Tara said.  “Has Xander w-woken up yet?”

“No, he’s still sleeping.  That’s good, right?  That he’s still sleeping?  He looks. . . happy.”  A touch of sadness in the last word, making Tara ache for the other woman.  The kind of strength it took to do what she was doing. . .  “They’re happy together,” Anya continued, “wherever the spell took them.  That’s good.”

Tara glanced down the middle of the room where Spike remained sprawled.  A circle of shimmering blue powder—which was going to be very difficult to clean up—surrounded him, candles burning at the four points.  A scrap of gold silk lay next to the eastern candle, a bit of black silk by the western one, with a second line of sand joining them underneath Spike’s body.  He’d collapsed the moment the final syllable had left her and hadn’t moved since.  That had been two hours ago.

“I d-don’t know that it’s going to work,” she cautioned again, despite the feeling in her gut that told her it  _was._   She knew not to trust that feeling without proof.  “There are s-so many ways for sp-spells to go wrong and we don’t even kn-now that they’re t-together.”

“Well, it can’t be because the ingredients are bad.  I had to look long and hard for the powder from a unicorn’s hoof.  Do you know how difficult it is to make them hold still?”  Anya sounded like she herself was the one to collect the pulverized hoof.  “They’re either trying to spear you or they’re turning funny colors.  And forget it when a non-virgin comes near them!”

Tara muffled her giggle; Anya did  _not_  like it when people laughed at her.

“I know Mark wouldn’t have given me a bad spell,” Anya continued, oblivious to how Tara was tuning her out.  “Sure, there’s some rivalry between me and the vengeance demon of men scorned, but it’s really not very much at all.  Although there was one time we were both called, for this couple in Paris.  _She_  had been tired of being beaten on and decided that she was going to have as many lovers as she could and  _he_  was upset because she had denied them sex for years and once she started sleeping around, she made sure everyone knew why.  Well, I can tell you, Mark and I were—”

“Did he—” she interrupted suddenly, immediately easing off when she heard how loud she was.  “I-I mean, um, i-is Xander m-moving?”  Not that movement was a  _bad_  thing, necessarily, and for all she knew it just mean that they were waking up.  Except the powder was supposed to turn white before that happened. . .  “Just now, d-did he move?”

“What?  No, he’s just lying on the bed like a great—his hand just moved.  Is that supposed to happen?  You should have let me help cast this spell!  I used to be good at this!”

Tara wasn’t offended by Anya’s shrewish comments, knowing the harshness was born of fear for Xander, not true anger.  Carefully, she knelt at the very edge of the circle, watching as Spike twitched, his arms shifting position restlessly.  “D-did he just, um, shift a little?  To his r-right?”

“Yes!  But now he’s not moving anymore.  Well, he’s breathing, but—Tara, should we have done this?” 

“Yes.  Yes, w-we should have.”  It had surprised Tara just how vulnerable Anya could sound, once she let her guard down a little.  More like a little girl than a woman who had a thousand years as a vengeance demon to draw experience from.  When she’d caught Tara snooping around for a spell for Spike, her first reaction was to jealously protect the Magic Box’s wares.  It had taken some very fast talking to convince her that Tara was going to  _buy_  any ingredients she needed and, while doing so, she’d spilled out why she wanted to do a spell in the first place.

Two days later, she’d shown up at Tara’s dorm room asking if they could do a slightly different spell so it could include more than just Spike.

It was odd being the strong one and Tara wasn’t sure she liked it very much.  She was certain, though, that what they were doing was the right thing.  She didn’t often get such a clear feeling of rightness, but when she did she knew to trust it.  And, anyway, Anya wasn’t doing this just because she wanted Xander to be taken care of when she finally left.  She wasn’t doing this out of a sense of guilt, either—at least, not much of one.  She was doing this for the same reason Tara was.

“I don’t want to hurt him, Tara.  I—he doesn’t deserve it.  And I’m going to hurt him so badly.”

“No, Anya, you aren’t.  If what you t-told me is true—”  She had to believe that, both of them did, or what they were doing—no, they  _were_  right.  Tara had made them wait an extra week while she looked for the things Anya had told her about and found them to be true.  This  _was_  going to work out okay.  It was.

“Are you saying I  _lied_  to you?  Because I didn’t.  I know that Xander has been dreaming about Spike for weeks now and you saw how they watch each other!  He isn’t cheating on me, I know that—but he isn’t happy with me, either.  I want him to be happy.”

“Then he w-will be.  They b-both will.”  She clicked off the phone after Anya’s grumpy good bye, still watching Spike.  He  _did_  look happy, as much as anyone asleep could.  He looked innocent, without the forceful aura of strength and aggression that he maintained with such care; she wondered if anyone realized just how much effort he put into the façade.  He didn’t look dead—she’d been afraid he would.  His chest didn’t move and he didn’t make the sleepy sounds most humans made, but it just made him seem solemn and quiet.  Then again, he’d never felt dead to her, no matter how many times Willow cautioned her about the vampire.

Sighing, Tara pressed her fingers at the edge of the spell, willing it to work correctly.  She loved Willow for loving her and she was truly grateful to Buffy for instantly coming to her aid, but it was Spike that had exposed the lie that had bound her for so long.  They had defended her—while Spike freed her.

“Find the happiness to find yourself. . .”

* * *

Sleeping with Anya was like sleeping with a cat.  Her tiny, petite body didn’t  _look_  like it would take up that much room, but it always did.  Granted, a full-sized bed really wasn’t big enough for two adults who didn’t always sleep spooned together, but somehow Anya always managed to use over half the bed every night—leaving Xander scrunched in the corner.  Ever since they’d moved to the new place, Xander always woke up with a crick in his neck and his back already aching.

Which meant something was very wrong.

He was warm.  Comfortable.  His body rested easily against something that rose and fell occasionally, creating an irregular rocking motion that felt nice.  Hard, strong. . . well, _something’s_  were wrapped around him, holding him tightly against whatever he was sleeping on.  A light, feathery touch was tracing patterns on the small of his back.

 _Oh, god._

His first instinct was to run.  Screaming.  Away.   _Any_ way.  Some vague vestige of common sense, however, was painting a graphic picture of why leaping up and disturbing his unusual pillow would be a  _very bad thing_.  Which gave his hormones a chance to realize that the slow, haphazard rhythm was doing a great job rocking his suddenly not-so-soft cock against an equally not-so-soft cock.

Maybe he could pretend to be asleep again?

“I know you’re awake, brat,” a sleep-rough voice rumbled up through his chest before his ear heard the actual words.  “So either get me off or get off me.”

He was lying on Spike.  It made sense, lying on Spike, since the last thing he remembered—

 _Oh, god._

“Right.  Okay.  Getting o—I mean, getting  _up.”_   Which would involve moving.  “Um, Spike?  You have to let me go, first.”

“Oh, right.  Sorry.”  Slowly,  _agonizingly_  slowly, the snug, comfortable arms wrapped around him loosened and slid off entirely, making damned sure to rub and tickle and caress—in a totally casual way, of course—every inch of Xander they could.

 _Oh, god.  And I should probably be looking for something more creative to say instead of calling on a god I’ve pretty much ignored my whole life._  Which made absolutely no sense, either.  Shaking his head, Xander forced gummy eyes open, determinedly ignoring the expanse of pale skin that met his blurry gaze.  Working his own arms out from under Spike took some effort and he  _refused_  to even contemplate why they were there.  No speculations by this guy.  Nu-uh.

“We had sex.”  Okay, so he had the resolve of a wet-blanket, as Spike had called him once.  Also, his mouth was  _not_  attached to his brain— _of course not.  Otherwise I’d be babbling about God and religion and me having a crisis of conscience and I_ really _need to stop thinking now._   “I mean,” he continued as he struggled to his feet and backed away, “that  _was_  sex right?”

“Yeah, that was sex.  You still respect me, now it’s morning?”  Spike made cow eyes at him, snickering when he got a glare in return.

“Funny.  You slay me with your devastating wit.”  Yawning slightly, Xander stretched—and then eeped, loudly.   _Naked!  I’m naked—again!_ Scanning the ground frantically, he dived for the ornate pants Spike had worn, ignoring the loin cloth.  He needed layers and  _layers_  of cloth between him and the leering amusement he felt on his back.  Struggling to get the delicate, gauzy material to behave, he managed to get at least the top part securely fastened.  The bottom however—

“Oh, very classy, Harris.  Always wanted to see you in a skirt.”  Gracefully climbing to his feet, Spike caught his arm and twirled him a little.  “Nice flare an’ gold’s a good color for you.  You should talk to the witches, see if they can dress this up with some spangles or—”

“Fuck you!” he snarled, yanking himself out of Spike’s hands and back towards a vine-covered wall.

The amused, leering smirk twisted.  “Funnily enough, Harris, you’ve already done that.  Why, want another go?”

 _How can he—how does he_ do _that?  I know that he’s not so hung up on the gender issues, and thank you, Anya, for those painful conversations, but—it was_ me. _It was_ me  _inside him, feeling him tighten around me so much that I could hardly even move and—_

“Oi, pet, that wasn’t supposed to be a trick question.  Are you—fine, then.  So this is the garden, huh?”  Spike wandered away, totally unconcerned that he was still naked, examining the flowers.  “Nice place.  Some serious dosh went into this.”

 _Spike, groaning in my ear, legs hard around my back, heels digging into me as he moved and writhed and—_

This was  _not_  the right time to get horny.  Really.  Glaring at his wayward penis while Spike went exploring, he began mentally conjuring the grossest, most disgusting things he could think of—and it was only  _after_  he had started on baseball statistics that he remembered he should be thinking of Anya.

 _Anya?  Why would she care?  Okay, yeah, girlfriend and ex-vengeance demon and possibly going to be very, very angry at me, if we ever get out of here, but she’s been pushing me at him for weeks._

Whoa.  Stop.  Rewind.

 _She’s been pushing me at him for weeks?_  

That was a new thought.  Tilting his face up toward the fabric ceiling, Xander closed his eyes and reminded himself that yes, he had a brain.  He should probably be using it to figure out a way to get home or cover up the whole gay-sex thing, but right now he really needed to think about—

 _She_ has _been pushing me!  She always wants me to patrol with him.  And she made me invite him over last week, when she bought blood for him and then refused to let me out of bed so I had to just shout through the door.  And then when we were Dawn-sitting, she wanted to go do inventory at the Magic Box so she had Spike come over and keep me company.  And—_

There were more,  _lots_  more events that his mind was suddenly very intent on cataloguing and presenting to him in picture-perfect clarity.  He’d just assumed that she was trying to be nice, since she always talked about how Spike could be one of those elusive male friends he never seemed to make—and maybe that would take care of the dreams he wished he’d  _never_ told her about.  He hardly even remembered them, really, but sometimes if she asked him right after waking he’d babble details that would be forgotten the instant he said them.  She seemed to take the dreams as proof that Spike and Xander needed to become bestest guy-buds.  Now that they’d had  _sex_ , though, he wasn’t sure that was really possible.

 _Except, we didn’t have sex.  Ali the Slutboy and, what’s his name, Nu’man had sex._   Multiple times in various positions and there was  _nothing_  on this earth or any other that was going to make him remember what had happened right before he passed out.  Because Spike had been having sex with Ali,  _not_  Xander _._

Of course, that didn’t explain why Spike had called  _his_  name or— _no!  What part of ‘not thinking about it’ did we miss!  I am_ not _thinking about this!_

“Harris!  Oi, come-breath, did you even hear me?”  A quick movement and Spike was suddenly  _there_ , crowding into his personal space, head tilted with his eyes scrunched up like he was actually concerned.  Surprised—Spike moved so damned  _fast_ —Xander twitched back and would have fallen if Spike hadn’t grabbed his arm to steady him.  “Xander?”

“Huh?  Get off me!”

“Oh, bloody hell.  You aren’t gonna have a break down, are you?  Cos I really don’t have time for you to start ‘questioning your or-i-en-ta-tion’.”

 _Ah, yes.  Yet another Anya-induced bondage—I mean, bonding exercise.  Watching teenage self-help videos about how to tell if you’re gay or not._   That had been one of the first times they spent any time together, not long after classes started back up for the girls and Mrs. Summers began working late at the gallery.  Sitting downstairs in the Summer’s home, trying not to get drunk on the beer Anya bought for them or laugh too loudly, thereby waking Dawn, at the videos she insisted they watch.  Ridiculously stupid, overproduced videos.  About men who were afraid of coming out. 

 _Um.  And I’m only questioning why she did that_ now?

“Xander!”

“Okay, okay, get off!”  Smoothing down the billowing make-shift pants that  _really_  didn’t work without the bottoms being tied right, Xander tried to get his head back into reality.  “Sorry, what were you saying?”

“You  _were_ , weren’t you?  About whether you might be a poof.”  Spike’s expression was speculative, something nameless and frightening dancing in eyes that were darkening.

“No, I wasn’t!  I—I was thinking about Anya!”  Lying was good, right?  Lying was  _normal_ , at least, since he regularly lied to Spike all the time.  Except now Spike was giving him this vaguely hurt expression and turning slightly away which meant he  _was_  actually hurt and trying not to let anyone know.   _And I really shouldn’t know that.  Really.  Okay, distraction I need a—bingo._   “Spike?  We gotta go.”

“Course we do, Harris.”  The vampire’s ability to switch gears on a dime was always disconcerting, but the whole smirking, hip-cocking, eyebrow-raising, disdaining-sarcastic switch was making Xander’s brain melt. “And you’ve suddenly sussed the way back home?”

Well, at least the snark-factor was the same, no matter what the weird look meant.  “The  _sun_  is rising, Flamma-boy.  And unless you’ve got a handy new sun-screen you wanna try out, we have to move  _now.”_

Cursing, Spike scooped up the loin-cloth and hurried down the path back to the safety of the shaded interior.  Xander followed behind more slowly, trying to shake away the sexy thoughts and concentrate on the important ones.  His own mixed feelings about Spike were far less important than figuring out how to get home.   _And how to make sure Slutboy doesn’t take over again.  That’s a good way to not have sex with Spike anymore._

Spike was waiting with an amused, long-suffering expression by the time Xander actually got to the hallway.  “I know that you love the gardens, my pet, but we are both sticky and could do with a bath.”  He reached out, taking Xander’s unresisting hand and tugging him down the hallway.  “I know how you’ve missed them.”

There was absolutely no mistaking  _that_  look.

Which meant— _oh, great.  Now I get to have sex with Nu’man_ instead _of Spike.  And when did more sex become a thing to avoid?_

The bathing room appeared just about the same time Xander realized that he should probably be trying to figure out where they were going and maybe how to get back.  Especially since it looked like Ali was still wherever he was when he wasn’t in Xander— _leaving me with my ‘master’.  Ooo, yay!_

Nu’man tsked lightly while Xander looked around a room as fully opulent as any of the others they’d been in, only this one had pools—six, three steaming, three not—dotted around tile that as some kind of impressionistic, formless representation of sand and waves.  “Ali, my sweet, sweet Ali.  Did I not tell you that you were to be naked at all times?”  Spike’s most leering smirk flashed up at him two seconds before his hips and upper buttocks stung from the force of cloth being ripped off.

“Hey!  That hurt!  I mean—sorry, Master?”  Possibly not the greatest save in the world, but hopefully it would have to do.  Nu’man didn’t seem to mind, running his hands all over Xander’s chest and abs, lightly tweaking at nipples already stiff and hard.

“You are so beautiful, my Ali,” Nu’man whispered, looking up with eyes that never turned that blue except when Spike was feeling some deep, intense emotion.  The kind Xander had only seen once before and had promised to never talk about to  _any_ one.

“It has been far too long, my pet.  We have much to make up for.”

Something witty and submissive-sounding without actually  _being_  submissive was on the tip of his tongue.  He just knew it.

Fortunately, he was pushed into the pool before he had to say it.

Spluttering to the surface, body dancing from the heat prickling up his sides, Xander shouted bloody murder as soon as he had enough air to speak, promising dire retribution.  “. . .because I’m done with this!  I don’t know what’s going on, or who the hell you are, or why I’m here, but I am done playing imitation Whoreboy for whoever you are and I—oh, merciful Zeus.”

Eyes wide and staring, Xander sank down into the water, thankfully onto a conveniently created bench so he didn’t drown.  And drowning was a very real possibility, because there was a mouth on his cock.  A very skilled, very talented mouth that apparently had no need for breathing because it slid up and down his length long after a normal person would have had to come up for air.

The water was nearly scalding hot, forcibly relaxing muscles that he hadn’t even known were tense, yet even the extreme heat couldn’t stop him from shivering when a sharp, pointed tongue traced the biggest vein up and down his erection.  Gasping and flailing from the one thing guaranteed to make him pop every time, he hardly noticed when his hands were grabbed and placed firmly in thick, curling hair.

“Oh, god,” he panted, absently tugging on a particularly long curl, rewarded with a particularly fierce suck.  “Oh, my god.”  Spike was blowing him.  Okay, so maybe it was Nu’man, but either way, he was getting the best blow-job of his entire life. 

Mouth hot from the water, suction stronger than any mere mortal could possibly create.  Xander was afraid it was going to get suctioned right off his body, like a demented form of vacuum cleaner, cleaning his body of unnecessary fluid.  Agile tongue finding every good place to flutter and poke and draw absent little shapes on.  Clever hands, bigger than any Xander had felt before, even his own, tugging on his balls and reaching up and behind to tickle and then press against the place Anya had taught him about.  The one that always made him come like a geyser when it was pressed, with jagged red shocks flashing behind his eyes.

It was stroked again and again until Xander couldn’t see the brilliant blue ceiling anymore, with its random white shapes mimicking clouds and maybe that was a bird?  All that mattered was the mouth bobbing on him, water swirling around his body from the force of head and neck moving, hands playing with him and the way his rhythmic tugging made that mouth move faster and harder and—

“Ahhhhhhhhhh!”

The scream around his cock made  _Xander_  scream too, especially when two rows of teeth scraped up, then down and then he was coming hard enough to leave every single muscle drained and limp.  Especially the muscle that was telling him that it was never going to function correctly ever again.  Ever.  Okay, maybe in an hour or two. 

“Oh, my god,” he said to the ceiling.

“God had nothin’ to do with that,” was the sardonic reply.  “And you do realize that I now owe you a good coring.”

“Coring?”  Was that what he thought it was?  “You owe me a—Spike!  You’re you again!”

Spike snorted, stretching luxuriously in the water, still mostly between Xander’s wide-flung legs.  Which he was not telling Spike about.  He noticed, too, that Spike didn’t actually look that upset at having done what he did.  There was none of the spitting or ick-faces Xander remembered from  _his_  what-the-hell-did-my-body-do moments.  “That’s  _twice_  now I’ve come to with bits of you in me.  You owe me, brick-layer.”

“Oh, please, I blew you  _twice!”_   Okay, so reacting with typical hostility and anger was probably not the  _best_  thing to do, but hey, it was what made him Xander.  Glaring while the vampire grabbed a bar of soap and began scrubbing, Xander refused to watch the tan bar skim over milk-white skin.  Because he already knew what that skin tasted like and—  “Okay, you know what?  I don’t care.  I just want to get out of here.  I’ve had  _more_  than enough of my life as Sinbad.”

“Sinbad?  Oh, Wa’il, have you been reading him more of those silly fantasy stories you enjoy?”  The voice was rich with disdainful amusement, thick as kohl and as darkly mysterious.  “Really, my husband, you spoil your slave too much.  Should not I, Khalida, deserve such devotion as your wife and Sultana?”

A dark-skinned woman dressed in gold and purple undulated her way into the room, glancing from one face to the other with a casual arrogance that made both men swallow heavily and then look at each other.  The same thought clear on both their faces:  _Wife.  Oh, shit._


End file.
